The Hail Mary Pass
by GLuisa88
Summary: Slightly AU- "…I just know we're all we've got. More than that, we keep each other human." Zachariah devises a plot to get the brothers to say yes to their destiny. If Dean plus Sam equals human, what does Dean minus Sam equal?
1. Chapter 1  Say Yes

**Title: The Hail Mary Pass  
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**Rating: T for language **

**Summary: Slightly AU- "…I just know we're all we've got. More than that, we keep each other human." Zachariah devises a plot to get the brothers to say yes to their destiny. If Dean + Sam = human, what does Dean - Sam equal?**

**A/N: In this story there is no Adam and no Castiel.  
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**A/N: This chapter is going to be a little short. It's kind of a prologue- setting things up. I hope you enjoy it enough to come back for the rest!**

****Thanks to Mikey for the beta of this story :D****

_Just get him to say yes._

Seemed pretty simple. Straightforward. Just one little word, three even smaller letters. Really, how hard could it be to get Dean Winchester to say that one tiny word?

A word so common. Dean Winchester probably threw it around several hundred times a day without even realizing it.

_Yes, I'll have another cup of coffee._

_Yes, let's turn here._

_Yes, we need more rock salt._

Yes, yes, yes. And each time playing into destiny. Never really realizing that's what he was doing but nevertheless, each yes led him right to where he was right now.

But now instead of saying yes, he was saying no.

And it threw everything into confusion. This isn't how the story goes. Dean says yes to Michael, Sam says yes to Lucifer, Lucifer and Michael throw down, Michael wins and ushers in Paradise. End of story. Or not. Rather, the beginning of story. Of course there is the minor detail that millions, perhaps billions, of humans would die, caught between Michael and Lucifer's fists, but everyone has to sacrifice _something _for the greater good. And baby, Paradise is as good as it gets.

Why this was a concept that Dean Winchester couldn't get through his thick, addled brain was beyond Zachariah's comprehension. But Zachariah was nothing if not persistent. Nothing if not aggressively determined. All his life he had been the guy least likely, the kid left standing when teams were being chosen. Passed by. Forgotten. Unseen. This was his chance- his big break. He had a major chip on his shoulder and something to prove so when Dean thumbed his nose at him and told him to go screw himself Zachariah took that as merely a minor setback.

Dean and Sam Winchester were disasters of apocalyptic proportions. Screwing fate at every turn. Damn the consequences. Why the man upstairs had chosen them for his story, why they had been chosen as the vessels was beyond Zachariah. They didn't seem to understand that by refusing to go along with the script, the master plan, they ruined things for everyone. With every turn they somehow managed to knock over a domino that led to the disruption of the natural order on a monumental scale. People who were not meant to be born were born. People that were not meant to die kicked the bucket before their time. The stock markets rose, the stock markets fell. Harley Davidson motorcycles went out, skinny jeans came in. Saying yes or no to fate was in many cases the difference between life and death, The Beatles and Justin Bieber. No one, not even the angels knew what was going to, what was _supposed _to happen next.

By saying no, the great big fate train to the Apocalypse had been derailed and now there was only one thing to do and that was operation get the train back on the track. And if we're allowed to continue to use the train metaphor, Zachariah figured that the angels still had a leg up- the train may be off the rails but the conductor was still alive and pissed. Michael would have his way. Oh yeah, Dean would say yes… it was just a matter of what buttons to push. And damn it all if Dean didn't have one really big button. He wore it right on his sleeve, there for everyone to see.

And that button was Sam Winchester.

Zachariah was a man with a plan. Or rather, an angel with a plan. It was a brilliant plan, if he were to be modest. No, it wasn't Plan A, or Plan B, or hell, even Plan C but it would work. It would get the job done and that's all that mattered.

Of course he wouldn't admit this to the higher ups, but he couldn't take complete credit for the plan. It was partly Dean's idea. And Dean didn't even realize it. That's what was so brilliant! Zachariah shivered with barely contained excitement. Sometimes there were some incredible advantages to being an angel. Namely, being able to eavesdrop on human conversations. To be that proverbial fly on the wall.

You see, Dean had been sent five years into the future. He had seen how things ended. He had seen that Sam had said yes to Lucifer and he had seen the utter devastation his arrogance, his stubbornness and insubordination had caused. But for all that he still thought he could withstand Michael. He still thought he could say no to Michael and come out the winner. He still thought that he and Sam together could fight destiny.

Dean and Sam had split up. Done the unthinkable and went their separate ways. But after Dean's little trip to the future he had been shaken. Dean had called Sam, asked him to return. He had said, "…I just know we're all we've got. More than that, we keep each other human."

Oh yes, so heartwarming it made him want to puke. And that's when it struck him. The Plan.

If Dean + Sam = No, then the simple math of the matter was Dean - Sam = Yes.

Yes, yes, he knows. Dean and Sam had tried the whole break-up thing and it hadn't worked for them. They were brothers- family. _That_ was destiny. It had been part of the plan. But seeing as destiny had already been screwed to hell by these two, perhaps a little bit more screwing would be necessary to get the natural order back on track. Zachariah didn't plan on trying the whole break up thing again, that wouldn't work. No, his plan was a little more permanent. Went a little deeper than just cat fights and short fuses. Deeper than betrayal and distrust. Those things would never permanently tear the brothers apart because they had too much shared history. Needed each other too much. But what would happen if he took away their shared history?

No, he wouldn't _change _history- he would merely change their _perception_ of history.

You feeling it yet? Oh yeah. This was going to be epic.

Finally Zachariah would be recognized for his brilliance. All those self-help, how to succeed in a dog-eat-dog world, books would pay off.

And the best part? It was a two for one sale. Not only would Dean say yes to Michael but Sam would say yes to Lucifer. Of course, Sam Winchester was not really Zachariah's or the angels' concern- that was up to Lucifer to get him to say yes, but he figured it could only help his street-cred to get a yes out of Sam as well as Dean. Oh yes. Life was beautiful.

It was not a fool-proof plan, it was better. It was a Winchester-proof plan.

Because if they didn't have each other, who did they have? If they didn't have each other they were nothing but weak, maggot infested, meat suits.

**D+S**

"I mean come on man, we're angel proofed! I say we find some cave to hide out in and wait till this thing blows over. I know it not perfect. It's got holes but come on, if you've got a better plan, share it with the class!"

Sam sighed heavily, ran his hand through his hair. "Look. That's just delaying the inevitable. Even if they don't find us, they'll find some other way to draw us out. I don't know, take hostages. Find other vessels."

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders slumped and head in hands.

"I don't know. All I know is that right now delaying the inevitable sounds really good…. Because seriously, the longer we can put off the Apocalypse… I don't know, it's just… that's gotta be a good thing, right?"

"I'm just so damn sick and tired of this weight. Of the fate of the entire world resting on every little decision we make."

Dean nodded hopelessly. It just felt like any decision they made was just going to take them to the same place. All roads lead to Rome and all that crap. Frankly, getting back together with Sam was sort of a Hail-Mary Pass. He'd seen how the story ended, he just prayed to God that somehow together it would be enough. That somehow them back together as brothers would change the future.

Dean, "All I know is that whatever we decide we need to get the hell out of here as soon as we can. I'm pretty sure the angels know where we are. Let's just find somewhere that we can regroup, figure things out and decide what our next move will be."

Sam nodded bleakly.

Neither realized that their move had pretty much already been decided for them. Wheels had been set in motion and when they woke up the next morning, the rug would be pulled out from under their feet.


	2. Chapter 2  You Don't Know Why

**Rating: T for language**

**Warnings: Mildly alcoholic Dean and lots of angst.**

**Thanks to my awesome beta Mikey!  
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**A/N: I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter out! I really appreciate the number of people who have favorited, alerted, and commented on my story- it's the best response I've had for a story to date so thank you so much! And that's partly why this chapter is so late, I'm a terrible perfectionist so knowing that people liked the first chapter, I felt so much pressure to not screw up chapter two- lol! When I conceived this story I didn't expect chapter one to begin with Zachariah's perspective… that was kind of unexpected for me. I had this chapter half way written and then after posting chapter one I realized that what I had originally planned didn't follow too well so I had to scrap that and start all over. I lost count of how many versions of this story are floating around on my computer- lol! So anyway, I really hope you like this and I now have a better idea of where to go from here so I should be able to update it a little more quickly :D**

**As always, any kind of feedback is incredibly appreciated!**

_Twenty years, it's breaking you down_  
><em> now that you understand there's no one around<em>  
><em> Take a breath, just take a seat<em>  
><em> you're falling apart and tearing at the seams<em>

_ Heaven forbid you end up alone, you don't know why_  
><em> Hold on tight, wait for tomorrow, you'll be alright <em>

_~ Heaven Forbid - The Fray_

The silence was deafening. Dean glanced at the clock by his bedside and wondered what the hell woke him at 2:23 in the morning. Dawn had not yet broken and the moonlight that streamed through the window was shattered by the blinds. He blinked rapidly as he oriented himself to his surroundings. He had gotten to bed pretty early the night before but even so he rarely awoke before the sun rose or his alarm clock went off. Whichever one came first. He was struck by the feeling of complete emptiness that pervaded the room, the silence pressing against his eardrums painfully.

He could detect no sounds of traffic from the street outside his door, the air conditioner in the corner was deathly still, having broken long before he checked into the room, and the motel room adjacent to his was eerily silent. No neighbors fighting or watching tv. It was pretty early in the morning but nevertheless the lack of noise was stifling. The thought pops into his still half asleep brain, _Am I deaf? _

"Shit." he whispered hoarsely, his throat parched. He felt foolish swearing into an empty room but at least he knew he still retained his hearing.

He turned his head, taking stock of his surroundings. Everything seemed to be in order, the salt lines around the door and windows were intact, the door was still bolted shut, his knife was under his pillow and his cell phone was on the night stand where he left it, right next to the holy water. No messages or recently missed calls. And yet something felt off.

He sat up again, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned forward, head in hands, massaging his eyes. He was too wired and on edge to get any more sleep and the ache behind his eyes that was creeping over him threatened a migraine.

He inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm his nerves but he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. He grappled around in the dark for the whiskey that was sitting on the nightstand, he felt the back of his hand connect to something hard and heard it clatter against the table as it started to roll. He jumped forward, his hands clumsily grasped for it, knocking it into his lap where he quickly grabbed at it before it slipped through his knees and spilled out against the floor.

It took another moment for his nerves to settle down again and he reached for the light by the bed, switching it on. The whiskey bottle was nearly empty and he quickly drank the last of it, grimacing against the burn as it went down.

He felt calmer but not any more at ease.

He could try to go back to sleep but he doubted he would be able to. He was freaked and miserable. And incredibly lonely. He shivered and wished that he had more whiskey. He looked over at the twin sized bed next to his. "Why is it empty?" he whispered into the dark.

Better question, why wouldn't it be empty? He felt a little disoriented and more than a little confused. Emotions and something that felt like an anvil, just sitting in his stomach, telling him that there was something really wrong with the fact that there was no one in the bed next to his and yet logic and reason reminded him that that was the way it was when he went to bed five hours before. And that is the way it had been for the past five years... ever since his father died.

His father's death. _Oh crap_. That was not something he wanted to dwell on. His mind was beginning to wander onto subjects that he thought he had locked up and swallowed the key to.

_Oh dad._ He whispered brokenly. _How could you leave me here alone. I needed you. I _need_ you. _

He shook his head trying to drag his thoughts from going any further down that road. His efforts were not very successful. The more he struggled to think of easier topics the more his brain wanted to wade back into the ones he wanted to avoid .

_Dad, why did you do that? How could you think I could live with that? I should be dead… not you…How could you sacrifice yourself for me…after… after what I did to Sammy? _

Sammy. No, no, no. He wasn't going to go there. Absolutely not. He choked back the sob that was forming in his throat. Screw this. He threw the empty whiskey bottle that he was clutching in his hands against the wall and watched as it shattered into a million pieces. He had no plans to sit here alone and let himself be tormented by the demons of his past. He had to escape his head and for that he would need alcohol. A hell of a lot of alcohol. He looked over at the clock again. 2:47am. He wondered if there were any bars still open at that time.

He realized that he was not familiar with the area. Did not even know where he was exactly. Somewhere in Michigan he thought. He knew nothing more specific than that. It was a little disconcerting but he did not give it much thought. It was never too hard to find a bar.

And so he threw on the jeans that were lying in a heap by the side of his bed, grabbed his wallet, making sure that he had the cash and headed for the Impala.

**~The Hail Mary Pass~**

Dean managed to find a bar not too far from his motel room. In fact it was so close that he was sure that when he got smashed he would be able to stumble home on his own without having to call a cab. He could just leave the Impala parked on the street and pick her up in the morning. But on second thought, that plan made him a little nervous since he did not really know the area, did not know what might happen to her if he left her alone in this part of town. He did not want to risk her getting "raped" while he was off getting wasted and so he turned around took her back to the motel and walked back to the bar. He caught his reflection in a passing window. His jeans were crumpled, his t-shirt had seen better days, his hair was sticking up in different directions and his eyes looked bloodshot, like he had been crying. Maybe he had been. He didn't really remember.

Dean knew the signs of alcoholism and he knew that he definitely drank too much. Sometimes he thought that maybe he should cut back a little bit but he always found pretty damn good reasons not to. He sure as hell wasn't going to fret his pretty little head about it. He was in complete control of the situation. Some might say he was in denial- _I can quit whenever I want to- _but he would insist he didn't have a problem. Alcoholic or not, he could function.

He seemed to be drinking more than usual these last few months- this Michael shit was really getting to him. No, if he were honest, he had been drinking too much pretty much to the day that he got back from hell. He wondered what his father would think if he were to seem him now- if he would be proud. Yeah right. He rolled his eyes. His dad was such a hypocrite. He would always rail on Dean for going out and coming home drunk, yelling at him that he would be useless as a hunter if he let alcohol become a problem. Since the day he let Dean have his first beer, John always drilled into his son that a drunken hunter was a dead hunter.

And yet Dean could not count the number of times he had had to drag his inebriated father to bed, undress him and clean up after him when he failed to reach a trash can or a toilet bowl in time.

He waved down the bartender, ordered a drink and quickly threw it back. Ordered another one and prayed to God that perhaps his father's old adage about the dead hunter would come true tonight.

He could feel the bartender's eyes on him, watching him. He was a little surprised when she attempted to strike up a conversation with him.

"So what's your story?"

"Huh?" His head shot up at the sound of the bartender's voice.

She just tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, not feeling the need to repeat the question.

"Oh uh… nothing much really." He said dismissively.

She shrugged, "Whatever. Sorry to bother. You just looked like you might want to talk."

He narrowed his eyes, "Look. It's nothing. My job. It's just really stressful…" that was putting it mildly.

She just nodded and turned back to straightening up behind the counter.

He pulled his cash out of his pocket, recounted it to make sure he had enough money to actually get as drunk as he wanted to.

"Can I have a bottle of your cheapest whiskey and several…" he paused for a minute and appeared to be thinking, "Uhh, make that six shot glasses."

She brought him his order and set it in front of him. "So, did you break up with your girlfriend?"

He looked up sharply from setting out the glasses and opening the bottle, "No… why?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. You just look really bummed about something…and I thought maybe six shot glasses were significant… like representing six years or something."

He smirked, "Never met a girl worth getting drunk over. What's it to you?"

She shrugged lightly, "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to intrude or anything. Like I said, you looked like you wanted to talk and it's not like I have anything to do." Other than going all OCD polishing the counter tops. "I'm bored as hell!" she laughed.

He leaned forward, elbows comfortably on the counter, he took the first glass, filled it with whiskey and set it down. He looked back up, expecting the bartender to still be there but she had turned her back. Was polishing silver. He coughed. She didn't turn around.

He cleared his throat, "Well, if you insist..."

She looked up in surprise.

"Pull up a chair." He suggested, indicating with a slight nod of his head a bar stool that sat in the corner just a few feet from where she stood. What the hell, it might be kind of nice to have someone to talk to.

Everyone has secrets, things that you would never tell a single soul, secrets that you swear that you'll take to your grave but sometimes you find yourself telling them to a complete stranger.

Who knows why. Dana, because that is the bartender's name, had always assumed that it was the alcohol that compelled the wayward husband to confess his affairs to her. Compelled the man who had just lost his job and was threatened with foreclosure on his family's home to confide in her about how he feels like a failure. How every day he thinks about killing himself. Obviously alcohol played a lot into these confessions. But that didn't really apply this time since the man who was sitting in front of her wasn't drunk yet. Perhaps it was just because he was tired of secrets, things he could not tell any one. Tired of the fact that there was no one to tell. And there she was, just standing there. Not judging him, just listening. Willing to let him dump on her, willing because she's learned that these people always tip better.

He looked up at her, his emotions masked behind a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, "This one," he said as he set the shot glass down, "Is for dad." His jaw clenched as he stared down at it, his mask slipping for a moment.

"What happened to your dad?" She asked softly. He didn't answer, and she felt embarrassed for mentioning it, "I'm sorry… I shouldn't have asked. It's not my business."

He cleared his throat, a bitter, almost angry smile plays on his lips, "He…uh… he took a bullet for me."

She murmured something sympathetically.

He took the next glass, filled it with whiskey, "This one is for Sammy."

"Did Sammy die too?"

He didn't meet her eyes, "Yeah. I… uhh… I killed him." It was hard to get those words out because he suddenly had the strange sensation that he was telling himself about it just as much as he was telling the stranger across from him. He didn't need to look at her to catch her reaction. He heard her sharp intake of breath. "Well, not on purpose. I was just a kid and he was just a baby… the house was on fire, dad told me to take him out of the house… I fell down the stairs, knocked myself unconscious. We were dragged from the building and I survived but… my brother didn't." The words made him feel sick to his stomach. He didn't know why he was telling her this. Why he was telling her this while he was still sober.

"It wasn't your fault." A cliché he had heard way too many times. Too many freakin' times in too many different freakin' circumstances. It's never "your fault" they would tell him but it was always him holding the smoking gun.

"Yeah, well. He's dead because of me." There was an uncomfortable pause, he sighed, "It was twenty-five years ago. I should be over it, right?"

"You shouldn't blame yourself. I'm sure your dad never did."

He laughed a short bitter laugh, "Yeah… right."

He turned back to his alcohol. Pouring the third glass, "This is for my mom." A pause. Maybe he expected the bartender to ask for an explanation but she just waited. He continued, "She died in the same house fire as my brother."

"_Hey Dean! Where's Dino?" John's big voice boomed through the house. Dean had been playing with his toy soldiers up in his room, jumping up every couple minutes to look out the window for his mom and dad to come home with his new little brother. _

"_You're going to be best friends!" His mother promised. "Now sit down in the chair and you can hold him if you're really gentle… that's a good boy. Don't wake him up, he's really sleepy." Dean stared down at the tiny, perfect little face- still bright red- that peaked out at him from the blankets that he was wrapped up in. Dean's green eyes wide with awe._

_The baby's tiny little fist grabbed Dean's finger and Dean giggled with delight. "Hi there Sammy!" he cooed. _

_Mary hovered protectively over her young sons. "Whatever you do, don't drop him honey!" _

_Dean looked up at his mother with the biggest grin, eyes shining, "I love him more than Bongo!" He exclaimed, referring to his giant floppy stuffed dog that he had carried around with him since he was old enough to crawl._

"_You're going to be a good big brother." Mary smiled, kissing him lightly on the forehead._

"_Don't drop him honey… you're going to be a good big brother…" _The words rang in his ears as if they had just been spoken. No matter how many years had passed he couldn't shake them, no matter how hard he tried or how many times he tried to convince himself that he hadn't been at fault. He was just glad his mother hadn't lived to know what had happened to her baby.

Dean had grown silent, had withdrawn into his thoughts. The bartender felt a little awkward, like maybe she should just leave him alone. Leave him to his thoughts and his alcohol. He had seemed to want to talk but now she felt like she was intruding. Just as she was about to turn away he coughed. "Uh, sorry. I guess I just spaced out a bit." His voice was thick with emotion.

Clearing his throat, "This is for Jo and Ellen…" he poured the alcohol into the glass and then took a large gulp of the whiskey that remained in the bottle, unable to continue his story. He struggled for composure because he wasn't going to sob in front of strangers. Especially not while sober.

He grasped the last shot glass in his hand. He stared at it, lost in thought. Wished that the memories that he had tried so hard to bury would just stay the hell buried. Wished there was a way that he could salt and burn them.

He silently filled the glass up to the brim with whiskey. He knew the bartender was expecting him to explain. But he couldn't talk about this one. Didn't really want to, couldn't even if he did. What would he say? _'This one is for all the souls I tortured in Hell. I thought maybe I should have a drink for each soul but honestly, I lost count after like the first week so yeah, I guess it's just gonna be the one.'_

"What's that one for?" She asked when it became apparent he wasn't going to say anything.

He forced a chuckle, "Not drunk enough yet, baby."

He tilted the first glass towards her in a salute and tossed it back. And then the next. Drinking them one after the other, in rapid succession.

He stared at the empty glasses for several minutes and then began to refill them again.

**~The Hail Mary Pass~**

The bottle of Jim Beam resting at his elbow was completely empty, the one that he gripped tightly in his hands was only half full.

The two of them were still sitting there talking. Dean appreciated the company. Thinking back Dean couldn't really remember the last real conversation he had had with someone since Bobby had died. A real conversation with a human, anyway. The angels were always popping in to talk to him, although all those conversations had been a bit one-sided. Mostly just the angels telling him how things were going to be and him telling them to go to Hell.

Dean knew his limits. He knew at what point the alcohol would start to make him a little buzzed, at what point his words would start to slur, he knew how much alcohol would make him so drunk he could no longer walk a straight line, and he knew exactly when he would start telling the woman in front of him stories she probably didn't want to hear and stories that could land him in a padded cell. It was about halfway through the first bottle of Jack that he had found himself sharing a little too easily a story about a rugaru and by the look on her face he knew it was time for him to shut up.

He gave it a punch line and laughed it off as a joke.

"So…" he said figuring it was about time he changed the subject off of himself, "Tell me 'bout yourself. How did a girl like you en' up inna place like this?" He smirked.

She grinned good-naturedly "I love people." She said simply. "I love hearing their stories. Everyone has one and everyone's is different… I was kind of directionless first year out of high school. My dad wanted me to work for his law firm but that just wasn't me, ya know? And then one thing lead to another and next thing I know I'm enrolled in community college and I end up getting a degree in bar tending."

"Seriously? You went to college to be a bartender?"

"Hey. Don't be a bitch! Bar tending isn't as easy as it looks- it takes some real skill, dude."

He laughed, he had forgotten how good it felt to laugh, "M'not knockin' it. S'awesome- I a'ways thought college was just a bunch of geek shit… maybe I'd've gone if I'd known you could major in something' cool like alcohol!" He set down his glass and leaned forward, "So, what do the parents think 'bout your career choice?" His drawl becoming more pronounced the more he drank.

She smiled a wicked smile, "I think they were just glad I wasn't working some strip club or some street corner." She poured herself a beer and set her elbows on the counter across from Dean. "I don't think I was the kid they wanted." Her laugh was surprisingly devoid of bitterness, "They didn't approve of my hair, my Harley, my boyfriends…"

"So you aren't close to your family?"

She shook her head, "Not really." She said lightly, "I was just so glad to get out of there. It was nice to have some freedom. You know, not having family breathe down my neck, telling me how to live." She looked at him as if maybe he could relate.

He winced, pressed his lips in a thin line, "I d'know." He said, not looking up from his drink, "Bein' alone is worse. Would be nice to know that when you show up in a morgue there'd be someone there to identify you..."

She could see the pain in his eyes and his words chilled her. Something she couldn't put her finger on... It wasn't what he said, it was more the way he said it. Almost like he had thought about showing up dead in a morgue a little too often.

"You know, maybe you've had enough to drink." She glanced at the nearly empty second bottle of whiskey next to him.

He raised an eyebrow.

She continued, "You don't want alcohol poisoning."

"Geez," he snorted, "Since when did you become the friggin' surgeon general?" She just laughed which Dean found slightly infuriating. He muttered under his breath, "Don' think blood poisoning would be the worst thing that could happen."

She grimaced. "Look. It's 5am anyway, so I can give you a ride home after I close this place up."

"You wanna come back to my hotel room with me?" He slurred, his eyes drooping.

She chuckled, "Naw, I think I'll pass."

He slurred something that she didn't quite catch, laid his head on his arms, and passed out, not waking up as she dragged him out to her car and dragged him back to his hotel room.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3  You Spin Me Right Round

**Story So Far: **After Zachariah removes Sam from Dean's memories, Dean wakes up alone and depressed. Finds a bar and drinks until he passes out. The sympathetic bartender takes him home and that's where this story left off.

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **Language and suicide attempts

**Beta'd by the awesome Mikey :D**

**A/N: **Thanks so much for reading- I'm sorry this chapter was so long in coming- I had to take a brief hiatus from writing because of my sister's wedding.

**A/N: **I'm sorry- for those who feel I have been too cruel to Dean- I must apologize because I haven't gotten any nicer to him in this chapter! To all of you wondering where Sam is, he's not in this chapter but he will be in the next.

* * *

><p><em>Dean had never felt anger before. Never like this. What he had felt towards Azazel, towards Alistair, Lilith... none of it compared. None of it.<em>

_It boiled up inside of him and it took every single ounce of self-control he had not to throw himself at Lucifer, tear him apart, feel his bones snap and smash his skull against a rock until his head was nothing more than sludge... he knew he'd be having dreams for months to come of different ways that he could have put his training with Alistair to good use._

_Which was ridiculous of course, because in terms of power, Dean was nothing more than a pesky mosquito that buzzed impotently around Lucifer's head. Nothing more than a slight annoyance to be swatted away. All Lucifer had to do was flick at Dean with his finger and Dean would be dead before he even saw it coming._

_"You better kill me now! " Dean shook with barely contained rage ,"Or I swear, I will find a way to kill you! And I won't stop!" His fingernails dig into his palms, drawing blood._

_Lucifer smiles softly, knowingly, 'I know you won't. I know you won't say yes to Michael either...'_

_'Whatever you do, you will always end up... here. No matter what choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up... here...I win. So I win.'_

**...**

Dean sat at the small table, chin resting on one hand while he twirled a pen through his fingers.

He stared blankly at the newspapers spread out before him, unable to focus on what he was reading. He huffed in annoyance as he reread the death notice for the fourth time.

_'I win. So I win.'_

He threw down his pen in frustration. He just couldn't get into this.

A group of vampires in Wisconsin. A haunted community college in Tennessee. A rugaru in Minnesota.

He couldn't find it in himself to care. At the moment there were more pressing matters that weighed heavily on his mind.

_'No matter what choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up... here...'_

The world was burning and he was supposed to stop it. How the hell was he supposed to stop it? Why the hell did he even care? Sometimes he thought that he didn't. Sometimes he didn't give a damn. His entire life he had given everything to protect this planet and all it had ever done to show it's gratitude was take away everyone he had ever loved.

So no, he didn't care. Right now he was just tired of being alone.

Truthfully though, he did know how to stop it. He could say yes to Michael. That's what he was supposed to do and supposedly it was the only way to put an end to the hell on earth that Lucifer was bringing.

Fighting fire with fire.

Stopping death and destruction by murdering and destroying.

He couldn't ever escape the enormity of what he was caught in the middle of. He was one man against all of Heaven's angels and all of Hell's demons.

Sometimes he could relieve the pressure by drinking. Getting black out drunk. It was only a temporary solution though and it didn't deal with any thing.

Dean supposed that the world was just screwed.

Dean's number one coping mechanism, besides drinking and women, was working. Burying himself in a hunt. Constantly on the move. Saving lives helped him forget about how powerless and weak he was. When he killed a monster or sent a demon back to hell he could pretend that he was invincible. That he was saving the world.

Because it was when he stopped moving, when he gave himself time to think of something other than the hunt and killing monsters, that's when he found himself sucking on the barrel of a gun and the only thing keeping him from pulling the trigger was the thought of hell.

When a person's been to hell, they find that they will do virtually anything to avoid going back.

But even the threat of Hell was holding less and less power over him. In some ways hell seemed preferable. At least in hell he would be rid of this weight. In Hell no one's lives depended on him.

So he found hunts. Small hunts that were insignificant and pointless in the face of fire and brimstone but it was something he could do and it was the only thing that kept him getting up in the morning.

Who was he fooling?

He wasn't saving lives, merely postponing their deaths.

In a few years all those people he was saving would be dead either by the hands of Michael and Lucifer or by the Croatoan virus.

Screwed if you do, screwed if you don't.

He could say yes to Michael or he could continue to say no. He said no because for as little as he cared, he wasn't going to be the one to end the world.

...

_Three... Four... Five...Six..._ He ends up swallowing the entire bottle... at some point he stopped counting how many.

Migraine pain reliever that he found at the bottom of his duffel bag. Strange because he doesn't get migraines and stranger because when he does use pain relievers it's not this brand. But whatever. It looks strong and they're small and go down easily.

He is going to hell. He is so going back to hell. He doesn't care. He knew he'd go back eventually, he's just speeding his homecoming up a little bit.

He can't save the world. He doesn't want to watch it burn.

He's useless. He doesn't care if killing himself won't change anything, he just doesn't want to have to make a decision that will damn the entire planet. Let someone else do it.

He doesn't know if him killing himself will screw up the angels plans but he hopes that maybe if he takes himself out of the picture the angels will have to give up on this whole Apocalypse thing of theirs. Pack up their suitcases and say, "Well, nice try boys. Guess we'll just have to concede this one."

He crushes the empty dixie paper cup in his hand and feels slightly dizzy and nauseated. He swallows back bile because he doesn't want to throw up the pills he just took.

He feels shaky and his legs feel like they're made of liquid. He can no longer hold his weight up and collapses face first onto the mattress. He'd stay like that if he could breathe but it's smothering him so he manages to push himself up and turn onto his back.

Okay. Now to just wait. His mind is sluggish and his thoughts seem disjointed and confusing.

He doesn't know how long he lies there, he loses track of time.

The world is spinning.

Everything is so bright.

Tick, tick, tick. Counting down the seconds.

So tired.

He'll sleep forever.

Alistair._ See you later. You'll be back... you'll be back. Sooner or later, you all return to me._

Hell.

He smells sulfur and burning flesh.

Pounding. In his ears. In his chest. Erratic. Drumming a beat that is both too fast and too slow. And not enough of either.

And amidst the chaos in his brain, one word stands out. Hell.

His vision is turning gray.

He's dying. Oh God he's_ dying_. What the hell was he thinking? His heart is racing and he sits up, sweating.

He can hardly grasp onto any cohesive thought. Oh shit. Oh crapcrapcrap. He's going back to hell.

He couldn't remember if he had been okay with that. All he knows is he can't do it again. He can't go back.

The blood rushes to his head as he tries to stand and he stumbles backwards. Over compensating for the backwards motion he lurches forward, the momentum sending him forward onto his face. Unable to break his fall, he hears, rather than feels his nose break.

He hears Alistair laughing.

Slowly lifting himself onto his knees he finds he is stuck there, unable to move any further.

It's a little too late now that he realizes that he's willing to do literally anything to avoid going back.

He has to throw this shit back up. He's gotta get these pills out of his system. He shoves his finger down his throat but it's not working. His hands are shaking even harder and the whole room is spinning.

He can't breathe. The panic that's twisting in his chest is suffocating him.

Slowly everything turns black.

...

He wakes up in the Impala.

He wonders how long he's been sleeping here. He can tell by the position of the sun that it's probably late afternoon. Funny that he doesn't remember falling asleep in his car.

A handful of pills, heart racing.

The smell of sulfur and burning flesh...

He feels sick as those memories flash through his mind. He laughs a bit nervously, running a hand through his hair, "Wow." he whispers. "That was shitty dream..."

He's startled by a light tap on the passenger side window, a face bends down and grins through the window at him. Zachariah.

Holy crap.

He briefly considers making a run for it and wonders how far he'd get. He tries the door handle but it's locked. Just perfect. He scowls.

"What the hell... freakin' angels..." Dean mutters as he leans over and opens the door for the angel.

Zachariah slides into the passenger seat, shifts around for a bit, attempting to get comfortable before turning to Dean with a smile that makes his blood freeze.

"Well, hello Dean. What brings you here?"

First words out of Zachariah's mouth. Dean blinks at him in confusion.

What brings him here? It knocks Dean a little off balance as he scrambles for some sort of response. Does Zachariah expect an answer? Dean doesn't exactly remember being brought anywhere much less what he is doing there. More confusing is the fact that it's a territorial question and Dean feels like it's something that he should be asking Zachariah- not the other way around.

He feels that he should be asking, _"What brings you to my Impala?"_

Instead he asks, "Where exactly is 'here'?"

Zachariah raises his eyebrows in mild surprise. He clucks his tongue, "I must say Dean, rumors of your intelligence have been greatly exaggerated." Taps his finger to his head.

"Okay, cut the snark and answer the question. Where the hell am I?"

Zachariah chuckles, "Well not hell... "

"Well that's... helpful." Because the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that other than that crazy ass dream, he really can't remember anything. Getting drunk. Okay. He remembers that.

He must have stumbled back to his Impala and must have been sleeping ever since.

Zachariah sighs, "Dean, Dean, Dean. You kill yourself and then act confused when you die? Sorry, but I'm disappointed. I expected more from you." He shrugs. "I guess you weren't chosen as Michael's vessel for your brains."

"What?" Dean's jaw drops open, "So I'm dead?"

That was just a dream.

Okay, he guesses not.

He looks around at his surroundings, pats at his arms, his chest, surprised at his corporeal body.

Why isn't he in hell? "This isn't hell? Where am I?"

"You're in Heaven. Why look so suprised? You didn't think we'd let you go to hell did you? We're not done with you yet!"

Dean blinks. No. Of course they wouldn't. Of course they weren't done with him. Damn it.

Zachariah smiles warmly, "Well son, today's your lucky day and I am going to give you" he cheerfully pokes a finger at Dean's chest, "a second chance. I'm gonna just zap you right back to where you came from- same bat time, same bat channel- and we'll all pretend this never happened."

"You know what, that's mighty generous of you." He gives Zachariah a friendly slap on the knee, "Really, your generosity is touching. But I think I'll pass. Ya, know, I've made my peace, said goodbye. I'm good. But thanks anyway. I really do appreciate it."

Zachariah smirks. Stares probingly at Dean until he begins to squirm uncomfortably, "I know you're not going to say yes. Not yet. But you will. Oh you will."

Dean takes a breath and sets his jaw. He refuses to meet Zachariah's eyes. Finally he says, "No."

The angel smiles good-naturedly, "I'm not here to argue with you about it. You _will_ say yes."

Dean stares straight ahead, his whole body tenses.

Zachariah continues, "You think you're a hero? You're not. You think they're going to thank you?" He leans closer into Dean's personal space, lowers his voice as if telling him a secret, his breath is hot against Dean's neck, "They will be begging you to say yes. You think Hell was bad? Wait till you see what Lucifer does to your precious planet."

Dean has to remind himself to keep breathing.

He wants to get out of here.

"No." He says.

**...**

Before he sends Dean back home, Zachariah says he has a job for Dean.

Mobridge.

It's a small town in South Dakota. Zachariah is vague, all he tells Dean is that demons have been congregating there, possessing the towns people and toying with those who aren't possessed.

The angels suspect Lucifer is behind it. That he's sending his minions there for some reason. Maybe just to cause death and destruction, maybe it's something bigger.

"You can stop it." Zachariah tells Dean.

"No. It's not my problem. You stop it." Dean responds.

Zachariah shakes his head, "Angel proofing. Our hands are tied."

"It's damage control" Zachariah explains. As if to say that since Dean refuses to say yes to Michael, it's his responsibility to clean up after Lucifer.

Like hell.

Dean hates the idea.

Doesn't want to go to Mo-shit, South Dakota. Doesn't want to try to fight a demon army by himself.

Zachariah laughs at him and asks him what does he have to lose? It's not like they're going to let him die. Dean supposes that's true. Nevertheless, Dean hates the idea of aligning himself with the angels.

He's not on the angel's team. He doesn't want to bat for them.

**...**

Dean is tempted to believe it was all a dream, but the slight ringing in his ears, the dizziness, the residual affects of the drugs still in his system remind him otherwise.

He feels trapped. Backed up against a wall.

Death is not even an escape.

"Screw you Zachariah." Dean hisses as he grabs his knife from under his pillow.

Without thinking, he slashes his wrists. Maybe it's the drugs, maybe not. It doesn't matter.

Zach will send him back, he knows that. He'll just kill himself again.

Maybe, if he's lucky, Zachariah will grow weary of this game. Maybe he won't, but Dean is tired of being jerked around by angels.

So yeah, screw you Zachariah.

**...**

How long has it been? She glances at her cell phone to check the time. Ten minutes. She shivers against the chill morning air and pulls her jacket tighter around her shoulders.

"M'knocking one more time and then I'm picking the lock." She mutters to herself as she pounds the motel room door a little harder this time.

"Come on! Answer the frickin' door!" She stomps over to the window, tries to peer between the cracks in the blinds but she can't see anything.

The poor guy probably has one hell of a hangover, probably still trying to sleep it off, and she knows that she's being stupid but nevertheless... the way he was talking last night... and she doesn't even know why, but she has to check up on him. Seems like the right thing to do. It sounded like he was pretty much alone and she couldn't stand the thought of him killing himself and his body not being discovered for hell knows how long. She shudders at the thought of him lying in a pool of blood for days, flies buzzing around his rotting corpse.

Damn overactive imagination.

Okay, breaking and entering be damned, she's coming in.

"Hey! What are you doing!" She hears a voice behind her.

Oh buzz off.

Damned busy bodies.

"Lost my key." She turns and smiles at the person on the sidewalk.

It's an old motel. The locks don't appear to have been updated since the Nixon era, which is a perfect stroke of luck. She pulls the hairpin from her hair and twists it around in the key hole until she feels the lock click open.

"Hello!" She closes the door behind her, lets her eyes adjust to the dim room. The only lighting coming from a few cracks in the blinds.

She gropes around the wall until she locates the light switch and flips on the light. She wasn't prepared for the scene that greets her.

Blood everywhere. She gags at the smell and she only half stifles a scream. Oh shit. So much blood.

Where is he? Where is the man named Dean?

She hears some movement from the general direction of the bathroom and she's about to run in there and make sure he's OK when he steps out looking like a character from a cheap slasher film.

His eyes are blank and his smile sends chills down her spine. He looks like he's high on something.

"Hi there. I remember you."

"Oh God." She whispers.

"How did you get in?"

She trembles, _answer the man, answer the man_, "Uhh... I picked the lock... hair pin."

"Huh. Those actually work?"

She nods weakly.

He seems to notice her preoccupation with the blood that covers his clothing, his hands, his hair. Seems to sense her fear and realizes how it must look, "Oh this?" He waves his hand at the blood that covers him, "Don't worry. It's all mine." He grins again.

Her eyes grow wide, there's way too much blood to be all his.

"Hey, watch this!" He chuckles as he puts the gun to his head.

She gasps and lurches forward just as he pulls the trigger.

**TBC**


End file.
